


Caring For Your Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, comforting!Greg, request, sick!Myc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's taken ill, and Greg is there, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring For Your Holmes

_Sir, please come pick up your boyfriend. -A_

Greg stared at the text from Mycroft's PA for a moment, then began to type a reply.

_Why? GL_

A few moments later, Greg's text tone sounded again.

_He's sick. -A_

Well, that was interesting. Greg had been under the impression that Mycroft rarely, if ever, fell ill.

_How sick? GL_

_Sick enough that I feel the need to text you and risk the Wrath Of Holmes over it. -A_

The DI smirked at that last text; Wrath of Holmes, he'd have to remember that one.

_What's wrong with him? GL_

_Some sort of stomach flu. He owes me a new suit. -A_

_Ouch, sorry about that. Is he really that sick? GL_

_Yes, and he refuses to come home. Please come collect him, because I am apt to strangle him in a few minutes. -A_

He stared at the last text curiously; he couldn't tell if she was being cheeky or serious. Maybe both.

 _That bad, huh? GL_ he typed as he gathered up his coat, giving Donovan control of the current case he was poring over.

_I'm going to throw myself out of the window. I've dealt with him being sick for the past decade. Your turn. -A_

_Decade? Jesus. GL_

_...How bad is it, really? GL_

_He's worse than Sherlock when sick. -A_

_Enjoy. -A_

The DI gulped; this wasn't going to be pleasant. He kept his nose in his phone as he walked out of his office and out the door of the large building, raising his hand to hail a cab when he reached the sidewalk.

_Oh, come on, that isn't fair. GL_

_Not my division. -A_

_Shut up, Anthea. GL_

_Look, I've dealt with him all this time, and he's been sicker and more whiny than this. Believe me, compared to some of the stuff I've seen, you have it easy. -A_

_How does one even take care of a sick Holmes? GL_

_Very carefully. -A_

_What does that mean? GL_

_In general, they're going to bitch and moan at you for hours on end, treat you like their personal servant, and demand you cater to their every request, no matter how ridiculous. -A_

_So, like usual. GL_

_Pretty much, except Mycroft is going to puke on you, most likely. -A_

_Lovely. So how do I take care of him? GL_

_Basically, all one has to do when caring for Mycroft Holmes is to listen to him complain and agree with him, keep him in bed and entertained (interpret that any way you want) and make him eat. Last time he fell ill, he refused to eat for four days and wound up needing intravenous fluids. Which was an entire ordeal in itself, as the man hates needles. -A_

_I didn't know Mycroft was afraid of needles. GL_

_And spiders. But we're off-track. -A_

_Right. So, listen to him, keep him entertained, and make him eat. Got it. GL_

_Back rubs are also very much appreciated by him, if you're looking to make him less whiny. -A_

_And how would you know this? GL_

_How do you think? Myc and I are very close, though not in the way you're thinking. -A_

_He hates having his name shortened. GL_

_I know. I do it just to annoy him. And I'm too lazy to type out Mycroft Edwin Percival Holmes. -A_

The DI let out a burst of laughter at Anthea's latest text, starting the cabbie. He raised his hand in apology, but continued laughing as the driver pulled up to Mycroft's building.

_Mycroft Edwin Percival? Oh my god. GL_

_If you ever tell him I said that, I will disembowel you and strangle you with your own intestine. -A_

_PERCIVAL?! GL_

_Yes, I realize how funny it is, but if he ever finds out I told you, he'll murder me. He hates his name. -A_

_I think it's cute. GL_ The silver-haired man replied as he climbed the outside steps to Mycroft's building.

_I always thought he'd have some sort of high-class, confusing name. Glad to hear my assumptions were correct. GL_

_The day you mention it to him is the day you die. Just so you know. -A_

_Noted. GL_ He texted back as he entered the large establishment, still chuckling from the discovery of Mycroft's middle names, which were much more interesting than his own, Alexander. He stepped into the lift and clicked one of the buttons, humming softly as the whirring contraption took him all the way to Mycroft's floor. Right before the door opened, he received another text. He clicked on the little blinking red number, scanning it as he walked down the corridor.

_I've managed to convince him to go home with you. You're welcome. -A_

_You're a saint for putting up with him this long. GL_

_Either that, or I've lost my mind. -A_

_Both. GL_

_Hilarious. Come get your boyfriend. -A_

Greg smiled and opened the door to Mycroft's office, finding a very aggravated-looking Anthea standing over a retching Mycroft. His heart clenched at the sight of his lover bent over a rubbish bin, Anthea holding his tie out of his way and smoothing back his hair. She looked up at the DI with a slightly frazzled expression.

"Thank god," she murmured, "I have a car waiting for you both. Take the private elevator."

"Unnecessary," Mycroft coughed, "I'm fine."

"We talked about this," Anthea muttered in exasperation. "You're going home, otherwise I'm going to strangle you."

"Empty threat."

"Mycroft," she warned, "Go home. You'll infect the whole building."

"Once one begins to feel the symptoms of-" Mycroft cut himself off, retching into the bin again. He shuddered, then swallowed. "Once one begins to feel the symptoms of this illness, one is no longer contagious. Try again."

"If you don't go with Greg, I'm going to tell the entire building that you like to dress up in my high heels." she replied flatly.

Mycroft froze over the bin. "But I don't."

"Who are they going to believe?"

The ginger let out an exasperated sigh (which was a bad idea, as it caused him to nearly be sick again), and nodded miserably. "Alright. Fine."

"Good boy," the brunette woman muttered, "Now go. I'll handle the office for now."

"Don't forget-"

"Sign the treaty, give the ambassador your utmost apologies, blah, blah, blah," she interrupted, "Got it."

Mycroft sneered, then allowed his PA to help him up, knees shaking. "Shall we, then?" he muttered, taking an unsteady step towards his lover. Greg wrapped an arm under Mycroft's shoulders and placed a hand on his chest, supporting him as they walked toward the lift.

**

"Get into bed." the DI ordered, leading the government official up the stairs and into their flat, carefully closing the door behind them. They'd managed to go the whole car ride without Mycroft being sick, but that could be attributed to the definite lack of food in his stomach.

"Don't order me," Mycroft snapped petulantly, "I'm not even that sick, why must I stay in bed?"

"Because you puked on Anthea, and I want to contain your illness-ridden self to one part of the flat, so if you _do_ throw up again, I'll only have to clean one room."

"This is ridiculous," the ginger muttered, "I'm a grown man, and a genius. I'm more than capable of caring for myself when I am ill."

"Yeah yeah, you're the British fucking Government, I know," the DI teased, leading Mycroft into their shared bedroom. "Alright, off with your clothes." he said, lowering Mycroft down onto the huge, soft mattress.

"You're not even going to buy me a drink first?" the ginger deadpanned, his illness-weakened fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt as Greg removed his shoes and socks.

Greg chuckled. "Funny," he reached forward to unbutton Mycroft's shirt for him, his nimble fingers moving quickly over the fabric. He took hold of Mycroft's left sleeve and tugged, allowing the younger man to twist out of the garment. The DI tossed the shirt aside, glanced at Mycroft, and sighed. "Only you would insist on wearing so many layers in bloody springtime." he muttered, tugging the ginger's undershirt over his head, balling it up, and tossing it aside, eliciting a dissatisfied noise from its owner. 

"Do be careful," Mycroft sniffed, "It's expensive."

"How expensive?" Greg asked, placing a hand on Mycroft's chest and pushing him gently until he was lying down, his sore back pressed against the mattress.

"I pay upwards of fifty quid for my socks. How expensive do you think?"

The DI whistled as his fingers worked over Mycroft's belt buckle, tugging the (most likely expensive) belt from the loops of the government official's wool trousers. "Fifty quid? Didn't your mother ever teach you to be thrifty?" he teased, unbuttoning and unzipping the dark grey trousers before taking hold of them at the waistband. Mycroft wriggled his hips, allowing his lover to pull down the heavy garment. He sighed with relief as his upper thighs were exposed, the cool air kissing his skin. The DI glanced up, mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Better?" he murmured, pulling off Mycroft's trousers with a final tug, setting them on the bed beside his partner.

Mycroft sucked in a breath, another wave of nausea washing over him. "Not by much," he admitted, swallowing hard.

Greg took immediate notice of his partner's discomfort, and moved his hand up to gently rub at Mycroft's slightly protruding stomach. "Poor thing," he murmured, "You want an icepack or something?"

"A bucket would most likely be better." Mycroft replied, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to fight off the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Come here," the DI muttered, taking Mycroft's hand, "Can you make it to the loo?"

"I can-" Mycroft cut himself off with a gag, leaning his head over the side of the bed and throwing up, thankfully getting most of it in the bin Greg usually kept next to the bedside table. "Oh, Christ," the DI murmured, reaching over to smooth back Mycroft's hair. "Jesus."

Mycroft let out a groan and rolled back onto the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "I'm sorry," he coughed, closing his eyes and sighing, "I'll have that cleaned up later."

"Shut up," Greg muttered, "Stay here for a minute, alright? Don't be sorry, it's your bloody flat. I'm more worried about you than I am about your carpet."

"I am sorry," the ginger muttered, swallowing hard, "It's disgusting."

"It's not disgusting, Myc," the DI soothed, "One second."

Greg turned away from his sick lover and padded into the loo, snatching up several of Mycroft's fluffy, expensive towels. He ran one of them under the water in the sink, then wrung it up and picked up one of the small, plastic cups Mycroft kept near the sink. For reasons still unknown by the DI, Mycroft refused to use actual glasses to rinse his mouth with, and also refused to use his hands, which is what Greg usually did. For now, he was grateful Mycroft kept this little habit, as it kept the DI from having to go all the way into the other room to get a cup for Mycroft to rinse with. 

He brought the filled cup and the wet towel back to Mycroft, placing the cup in his palm and the towel over his forehead. "Hey," he murmured, brushing Mycroft's curls out of his eyes, "Rinse and spit."

"How classless," Mycroft remarked, though doing as he was told anyway. He set the cup down on the nightstand and sighed, draping an arm over his forehead.

"Feel better?" Greg questioned, reaching up to pat Mycroft's cheek.

"Obviously not," the ginger moaned, shuddering. "This is awful."

"I know," Greg soothed, "Poor thing. Do you want me to get you anything?"

Mycroft didn't answer, instead making a Herculean effort to move over so his head was in Greg's lap, letting out another pitiful groan as he did so. The DI smiled down at the government official and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing down the mussed tresses. "S'alright, babe," he chuckled, toying with Mycroft's ear (which was unusually hot, probably due to the fever he had, and the burst blood vessels in his head). "Just get some sleep, yeah?"

"No, really? Why, you rival Sherlock in the field of deduction!" Mycroft mocked weakly.

Greg smiled. "Still as sarcastic as ever," he chuckled, leaning down to peck Mycroft's cheek. "I love you, you sick twat."

"I love you too, you stupid ponce." Mycroft yawned, then rolled over and shut his eyes, letting the comforting feeling of both his lover's hand on his back and the proximity of him lull him into a contented sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any formatting errors, this was typed during a car trip on an iPhone.


End file.
